Page 66 of Cain

And if they hit me at a higher speed, the chance of flipping intensified. The chance of a crash into a tree killing me grew substantially as well.

What did I do?

Call the police?

I should call the police, right?

Why then did I want to call Cain?

Before I could even think about taking one of my hands off the wheel to reach for my phone, the car clipped my rear quarter panel with bone-jarring force.

The rear end kicked sideways.

And suddenly, I was no longer in control. I was fighting the car.

The tires shrieked as the car slewed sideways across the pavement. Then the back end broke loose, swinging around before I could correct.

The steering wheel became useless.

The car spun hard, the scenery revolving in a dizzying blur.

My body was thrown against the seat belt, wrenching a grunt of pain from me.

My stomach cartwheeled.

It seemed like the spinning would never end.

But then it did.

And that was somehow even more terrifying than the spinning.

Because there was the car.

Brights blinding me.

Sitting.

Waiting.

“Go away!” I shrieked, too anxious to think clearly as I wiped my wet hands on my thighs. Then I reached for my purse with one hand as I threw the car into reverse with the other.

I set the phone to speaker and dropped it onto the passenger seat as I turned, threw it into drive, and sped away.

“Babe, I was just—”

“Cain!”

There wasn’t even a beat in his response.

“Where are you? What’s happening?”

“Sleepy Hill Road,” I gasped, not sure why I was so short of breath, but I was breathing like I ran a marathon. “Someone keeps ramming me with their car.”

“I’m on my way,” he called.

I could vaguely hear him barking something out to others, then the slamming of a door, the beep of a car’s ignition before it roared to life.

“Talk to me. What does the car look like? Do you see any cross streets?”